


somewhere it's safe and warm

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: FC Barcelona, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 15:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6526546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neymar doesn't mean to start stealing Rafinha's clothes and he certainly doesn't mean to start wearing them. It just kind of happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	somewhere it's safe and warm

**Author's Note:**

> I mean, no one is going to wait for me to finish my epic Neyfinha fic, so I might as well give you something in the meantime. Clothes sharing is one of my very favorite tropes. Not sure at the exact timeline on this, probably somewhere in the latter half of Rafa's injury, where he was hanging out at Ney's house a lot, and his recovery. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! Unbetaed, so all mistakes are my own.

 

 

It starts with an unfamiliar sweatshirt draped over the arm of one of the armchairs in his living room.

 

 

Neymar’s spread out on the sofa, the pads of the electric massager pulsing rhythmically on his feet and an action movie playing on the TV. He hasn’t been sleeping that well recently, can only handle a full night’s sleep when Davi’s over, his childish sniffles lulling him to sleep. Otherwise, he’s only managed to catch snatches of a few hours. It’s enough to not affect his game, but it’s still relatively unpleasant.

 

 

The air conditioning is just a tad too cold, and he always gets chilly when he’s sleep deprived. It’s too much effort to get up and look for a blanket, much less to make the trek across the house to his room.

 

 

He grabs the sweatshirt. It’s big on him, but warm and when he lays back down on the pillows, he finds himself drifting off to sleep.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Neymar wakes up in the middle of the night, mouth stuffed full of cotton. There’s a moment of confusion as he blinks at the shadows caused by the light of the TV, before he rolls over and turns it off, clumsily pulling at the wires of the massager till his feet are free, and the shuffles through the living room and down the hallway to his room

 

 

As he faceplants into the comforter, still fully dressed, it occurs to him that his hoodie smells like Rafinha’s cologne. He falls asleep before he can start obsessing over the implications of that.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

He oversleeps the next morning, dropping the sweatshirt with the rest of his casual clothes on the bed, while hunting for an appropriate outfit. He can afford the tardiness fee, of course, but he doesn’t want to make a habit out of it.

 

 

By the time he comes in, in the afternoon, housekeeping has already been round, and the sweatshirt is nicely folded on the small table in front of his walk-in closet. Rafinha didn’t ask about it, doesn’t even seem to be aware it’s missing.

 

 

There hadn’t really been time to talk. Rafinha still has rehab going on, hours and hours of running training, the sand stubbornly sticking to his clothes. Neymar remembers how it is.

 

 

Neymar thinks, briefly, about calling him, asking about his day, offering to return the sweatshirt, but he’s exhausted today, lethargy clinging to his limbs. The muscles in his feet hurt, and that’s not unusual. He has a cream for it, somewhere and the massager helps, but he doesn’t really feel like dealing with the amount of wires right now.

 

 

He sprawls out on his bed instead, the white cotton sheets soft and smelling faintly of detergent. The room is still cold. He forgot to change the thermostat when he came in. Before he can talk himself out of it, he gets up, grabs the sweatshirt and dives under the covers again.

 

 

There’s something inexplicably comforting about the smell clinging to the fabric, a mix of unfamiliar detergent and familiar cologne, and Neymar falls asleep almost immediately.

 

 

He sleeps straight through dinner and only wakes up in time for breakfast when Rafaella brings him a cup of coffee to bed, her teasing smile softened by the early morning light.

 

 

She doesn’t ask about the sweatshirt (and why would she? Neymar has plenty of clothes she doesn’t know about), just calls him a dumbass and reminds him to change the thermostat.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

The thermostat is broken. Neymar wears the hoodie around the house for the three days it takes the company to send the repairmen to fix it.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

It’s April and Rafinha’s back to training with the team.

 

 

It’s good, to have him there. Neymar hasn’t realized how much he’d missed him until he’s there every day, smiling and flipping him off, and frowning when Neymar is careful of his knee when they tousle.

 

 

He still hasn’t asked about his sweatshirt and Neymar hasn’t mentioned it, even though it’s lost all traces of Rafinha’s scent a few weeks ago.

 

 

But sometimes, when Neymar comes home from training, standing in the hallway toeing off his shoes, he could swear that he can smell Rafinha on his clothes, from where his hand lingered on Neymar’s arm or when he’d pressed close to hug him from behind.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

They go out together one night, celebrating something, maybe a birthday or a wedding or a child being born. There’s Neymar’s group of friends and there’s Rafinha’s, and they get along well for the most part.

 

 

The club is dark and too-warm, the press of bodies promising a false anonymity. Neymar drinks, and then he goes to dance, with young women in short skirts, who smell like wildflowers and smoke.

 

 

At some point, he backs up into someone, and their arms sneak around his waist. They’re thick heavy arms, definitely not a woman’s and for a moment he starts to twist away, but then he smells familiar cologne and relaxes back into the warmth.

 

 

It’s just Rafinha.

 

 

Their hips move in sync to the music. Rafinha’s a good dancer. It’s the Brazilian in him. Neymar is sure that Thiago can’t be nearly as good. It feels like they’ve danced like this together a hundred times, but they haven’t really, not with the button on Rafinha’s jeans pressing through the thin cotton of Neymar’s trousers, his warmth heavy and lulling against his back.

 

 

Neymar leans his head back to rest it against a strong shoulder. He’s close enough to see Rafinha’s stubble in the half-light and the shape of his mouth, pulled up in a smirk.

 

 

“Hey Rafa?” He’s not sure if Rafinha can even hear him over the pounding beat, but he tilts his head closer, so he continues. “Your cologne, what’s it called?”

 

 

Rafinha says something, but it’s lost in the din of the crowd, so Neymar just nods. It wasn’t that important anyway.

 

 

“You smell good.” He says, and maybe it’s his imagination, but it looks like Rafinha’s smile widens.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Neymar doesn’t remember how he got home, but when he opens his eyes, his room is flooded with morning light, and he’s clutching a sleeve of the sweatshirt where it’s bunched up under his pillow.

 

 

*

 

 

 

It’s not like he plans on taking Rafinha’s sweatpants. He’s aware of how creepy this is getting, he doesn’t want to make it worse, especially now that he and Rafinha are spending more and more time together, driving to Neymar’s house or Rafinha’s apartment after training and playing video games for hours at a time.

 

It’s not helping his crush, but Neymar’s still reasonably sure he’s in control of it. He’s even washed the sweatshirt, folded it nicely on the table in his bedroom. He’ll return it any day now. He will.

 

But, the sweatpants.

 

He’s almost late again, after another sleepless night. He’s still only catching a few hours per night, and he can’t take a sleeping pill because they make him slow, and he’s afraid they’ll show up on the drug screens.

 

So he puts on his training shirt and blindly pulls up his pants. They feel a little loose, but he thinks he might have lost weight again, so he tightens the drawstring and rushes to the training ground instead.

 

It’s not until he catches sight of the big grin on Rafinha’s face and follows his gaze that he realizes that the pants have the number ‘12’ on them.

 

 

*

 

 

He’s got no excuses for why he packs them with the rest of his stuff.

 

 

*

 

 

Rafinha leaves a T-shirt at his house one night, after accidentally spilling some juice on it. Neymar lends him one of his own. It’s too big on him, but on Rafinha it’s just right, so he’s got no qualms about telling him to keep it, his cheeks warm at the thought of the little collection he’s got going on in his bedroom.

 

*

 

Rafinha wears it a few times after that. The sight never ceases to make something in the pit of Neymar’s stomach feel warm and heavy.

 

 

*

 

 

He doesn’t mean to take the clothes with him to Brazil. His mom packs his bags, and puts them in his suitcase. If she realizes that they’re too big for him, she doesn’t say anything about it.

 

His mom likes Rafinha, thinks he’s charming. She never forgets to tell Neymar about it every time he comes up in conversation. He thinks Rafinha is charming too. He never tells her that though, afraid of the interested glimmer in her eyes dulling into understanding. Into pity.

 

He doesn’t need pity.

 

 

*

 

 

He loves Brazil more than any other place on earth. He was born and raised here, it’s his home, it’s where his friends are. Well, most of his friends. Rafinha is in Vigo and he’s got no plans about flying over, at least none he’s willing to share with Neymar.

 

They haven’t been talking much over the summer. Neymar feels it’s for the best, like maybe the distance will make it easier to face the fact that whatever he’s feeling for Rafinha is definitely more than friendship. He doesn’t know if it’s working. All it does is make him miss him like crazy.

 

He’s still not sleeping.

 

 

*

 

 

He declines invitations to go out, and dodges worried phone calls. Instead, he puts on old football matches, the ones where he thought he played well. And he puts on Rafinha’s T-shirt and his sweatpants and his hoodie, settling under a blanket on his sofa.

 

His phone vibrates with a text. He ignores it. He’s getting good at that. Onscreen, Leo scores one of his perfect goals against Valencia, and Neymar smiles, gropes for the remote and replays it.

 

His phone vibrates a few more times, and then grows blessedly silent. Neymar lets out a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding and settles further into the throw pillows.

 

The doorbell rings and he actually groans out loud. It keeps ringing, until he gets up and stumbles to open it, blinking at the sunlight.

 

Rafinha’s standing on his doorstep, a suitcase by his feet and a big smile on his face.

 

He looks good.

 

Unlike Neymar, who’s got bags under his eyes from not sleeping and hasn’t showered this morning.

 

They look at each other for a minute in silence. Neymar’s head feels heavy and filled with cotton.

 

“Rafa?” he asks, and almost winces at how desperate his voice sounds. “You’re here?”

 

“Hey,” Rafinha says, his grin softening into something smaller, edged with concern. “Ney, are you okay? Your sister said you weren’t returning calls.”

 

“And she sent you here? All the way from Spain?” his brain is trying to catch up to the proceedings. Rafinha is still standing on his front porch, so he takes half a step back to gesture him in.

 

“I was on my way anyway. I wanted to surprise you.” ‘You weren’t answering my calls either,’ goes unsaid but not unheard, and he looks at his feet, cheeks burning.

 

“I’m fine. You didn’t have to worry.”

 

“You don’t look fine.”

 

“Wow, you sure know how to make a guy feel special,” Neymar tries a joke, but it falls flat, judging by the frown on Rafinha’s face.

 

“What’s really going on, Neymar? Did I…did I do something?” Rafinha’s voice has grown soft, and there’s a furrow between his eyebrows he only gets when he’s really upset with something and trying not to show it. Neymar wants to smooth it out with his fingers. Which is the problem in the first place.

 

“You didn’t,” Neymar says, softly, “this is on me. I promise, I’ll get over it by the time the new season starts. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

 

“Well, that’s not reassuring at all,” Rafinha shakes his head and his frown deepens in the shadows cast by the half-light of the television. “Wait…is that my sweatshirt?”

 

“Yeah. Sorry about that. I meant to give it back,” Neymar can’t handle watching the expression on Rafinha’s face anymore, so he looks at the floor instead, at his toes buried in the plush rug.

 

“Neymar,” there’s something in Rafinha’s tone that has Neymar snapping up. “Why are you wearing my clothes?”

 

“They smell like you. Or they did. It helps me sleep,” Neymar admits, swallowing heavily. “Look, I told you, it’ll go away, it’s fine, I can deal.”

 

“What’s going away?”

 

“My feelings. For you.”

 

“What if I don’t want them to go away?” Rafinha says, and Neymar gasps out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It echoes in the ensuing silence. On-screen, Leo scores his second goal of the evening. “What if I like you wearing my clothes?”

 

“Oh,” Neymar says, because the possibility of Rafinha returning his feelings has never actually occurred to him, he’d been so focused on willing them to go away. “Okay. Okay, shit. You should…do you want to kiss me?”

 

Rafinha smiles and Neymar feels an answering grin form on his lips, and then he’s laughing, laughing all the way through Rafinha looping a hand round his waist and tugging him closer to press their lips together.

 

Rafinha’s lips are plush and a little bit chapped, like he’s been biting at them, but he’s so warm, Neymar can’t help sort of swaying into him, raising his hands up to grab at Rafinha’s sweater to pull him even closer. His smell surrounds him like a blanket.

 

Rafinha kisses like he plays, alternatively precise and focused, gently tugging on Neymar’s bottom lip until he moans, and playful, dropping kisses on his cheek, the edge of his jaw, ducking down to mouth at his neck.

 

They kiss, over and over again, and when Neymar’s knees threaten to go wobbly, Rafinha backs him up against the kitchen counter, lifting him up onto the cool marble so he can step between his legs. Neymar finally loosens the grip he’s got on his sweater, so he can stroke down Rafinha’s back, feel the muscles shifting beneath his palms. He pulls up the fabric to press his hand against bare skin, just to feel him shiver.

 

They don’t go any further than that though, and eventually their kisses slow down into soft brushes of lips against each other, their mouths pressed close to steal breath from each other’s lungs.

 

“I can’t believe you stole my clothes,” Rafinha murmurs against his lips. “Is that my shirt?”

 

“Your sweatpants too,” Neymar says and Rafinha, honest to god, moans. “You like it.”

 

It’s a statement, not a question.

 

“Yeah,” Rafinha says, dragging his hand down Neymar’s torso for emphasis. “I really do.”

 

“I think you’d like me better without them,” it’s a bold statement, especially since it feels like all his sleepless hours are suddenly crashing over him

 

“Oh, no doubt,” Rafinha says, laughing a little, “but that can wait till tomorrow, when you don’t look like you’ll fall asleep on me any minute. Where’s your bedroom?”

 

 “You’ll stay?” he murmurs against Rafinha’s collarbone, smiling instinctively when he laughs.

 

“Of course I’ll stay. And I brought you a suitcase full of clothes, so you won’t have to steal any.”

 

“Just borrowed,” Neymar says, but it comes out more like a sleepy mumble. The last thing he remembers is crawling under the soft cotton sheets and Rafinha’s warmth pressing against his back, his arm settling over his middle.

 

 

*

 

 

He wakes up to his sheets smelling of Rafinha’s cologne and his shampoo on his pillow. It’s the best he’s slept in months.

 

The other side of the bed has cooled already, but he can hear the shower running.

 

It shuts off and after a few minutes, Rafinha walks into the bedroom, wearing a small towel round his waist and one of Neymar’s too-big plaid shirts, and nothing else. When he sees Neymar is awake, his face breaks out into a grin that lights up his whole face. Neymar kind of wants to kiss him, a lot.

 

“Well, well,” Neymar says, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounds, “look who’s stealing clothes now.”

 

“Technically, I’m just borrowing,” Rafinha laughs, then drops the shirt and the towel to join Neymar on the bed.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are loved, comments are treasured!  
> Find me on [tumblr](https://neyvenger.tumblr.com/)


End file.
